Arnold wants me on sedatives. Tempted as I am, must keep wits about me.
—JOURNAL (dictated), SEPT. 7, 1992
Feeley showed up at my bedside at Bethesda Naval Hospital shortly after ten the next morning.
“Urrr,” I said.
“I’ve just seen the boss,” he beamed. “He looks terrible. Both eyes are black and blue. His forehead has a lump on it the size of a golf ball, and he’s got a hairline fracture of his ulna.”
“Why,” I moaned, “does that please you?” The pain in my chest was extreme, making it difficult to breathe. My toes felt hot and itchy inside the cast.
“The switchboard’s going bananas. We’ve logged twelve thousand sympathy calls. And the fucking flowers. We’re sending them over to Arlington cemetery.”
Pleased as I was to hear that the American people were pulling for their President, I said I was surprised at the extent of the outpouring.
“Well, considering the circumstances,” said Feeley.
“Circumstances?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was a great thing he did. I tell you, they’re shitting bricks over at Bush headquarters.”
The remark cut through the pain like a horn through fog.
“Tell me,” I said, “about this great thing he did.”
“Saving your life.”
Joan told me afterward that I attempted to lunge out of bed and attack Feeley. In doing so, I apparently rebroke my collarbone and passed out from the pain.
When I came to, a Navy doctor was leaning over me. Joan was sitting beside me looking worried.
“Feeley,” I moaned. “Feeley.”
“Of course you’re not feeling well, Mr. Wadlough,” said the doctor.
“No, Doctor,” said Joan, “Mr. Feeley was the one he—”
“Ah,” nodded the doctor. “You need rest, Mr. Wadlough.”
Several hours later Joan fed me some homemade meatloaf. She was a great comfort to me.
“How are the children?” I asked. “Do they miss me?”
She told me Herb, Junior, had been put in the “B” section of ninth grade.
I sighed. “What other good news do you have for me?”
“We had a letter from Mr. Urrutia-Bleyleben’s lawyer.”
“Joan,” I said. “I was being sarcastic.”
We lived next to the Uruguayan military attaché. He was a singularly unpleasant man who owned nine basset hounds that bayed all evening long at the moon, whether it was out or not. After being pleasant about it for some months, I had finally threatened him with legal action. Then Herb, Junior, had taken his bow and arrow and wounded one of the beasts in the hindquarters. Neighborly relations had been very strained thenceforward. Whatever the new development was, it could wait.
After Joan left, I had a nurse dial the White House and ask for Feeley.
“Tell him I want to see him. Immediately.”
She got him on the phone and told him. “He says he’s very busy right now. Can he come tomorrow?”
“Tell him he has one hour. After that I start giving interviews.”
She gave him the message.
Forty-five minutes later the door opened.
“Jesus, what a day.” He had that altar-boy smile and was carrying a large and hideously ugly house plant.
“Where did you steal that? Arlington?”
“How you feeling?”
“Miserable. Miserable and betrayed.”
“That’s terrible.” The worst thing about it was he was sincere. “Can I get you anything?”
“You can. What sordid prevarications have you been spreading?”
“Would you like to read the press release?” He offered it to me.
“I can’t use my arms.”
“I’ll hold it for you.”
“Just put it there!”
I read.
THE WHITE HOUSE
August 31, 1992
12:00 AM EDT
Office of the Press Secretary
For Immediate Release
The President is in “very good” condition this morning following an accident last night on Monhegan Island, Maine. He sustained soft tissue injuries, ecchymosis under the right eye, and a hairline fracture of the ulna. His personal physician, Major Todman F. Arnold, expects him to be released from Bethesda Naval Medical Command tomorrow, and to be able to fully participate in the general election campaign.
“You split an infinitive,” I said. Feeley shrugged. I read on.
Herbert A. Wadlough, deputy chief of staff and assistant to the President, sustained slightly more serious injuries.
“ ‘Slightly’?”
His condition is being termed “good” by doctors at Bethesda. He sustained a contusion of the forehead, a fractured clavicle and a ruptured plantaris. Doctors expect him to be released within the week. It is not known at this time if his injuries will preclude his full participation in the election campaign.
The incident occurred at 11:08 Eastern Daylight Time while the President and Mr. Wadlough were walking along the rocks on the eastern shore of the island. Mr. Wadlough slipped on seaweed and began to fall down the side of a rock. The President, attempting to break his fall, jumped and interposed his body between Mr. Wadlough and the base of the drop. It is the opinion of Major Arnold that Mr. Wadlough would not have survived the fall if the President had not acted as he did. In so doing, the President sustained the above-mentioned injuries, which, though not life-threatening, were serious enough to require his immediate evacuation from Monhegan.
“You’re responsible for this,” I said.
“Herb, before you get all bent out of shape—”
“Bent out of shape? You perfidious—Look at me!”
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean that. It’s just, the thinking was—”
“Don’t tell me what ‘the thinking’ was. Whenever I hear that, it means there wasn’t any thinking at all, just conniving and deviousness. Usually both, in your case.”
He grinned, which annoyed me considerably.
“You were probably exploiting my injuries for political purposes before I even got medical attention.”
He tried to look hurt. He wasn’t very good at it. “Do you really think I’d do that?”
“You’d blow up the Girl Scouts building.”
“Do you really mean that?” he asked.
“Yes,” I snapped. “And if I could think of something more sacred, I’d have said that.”
“Do you want to hear what happened?”
“I know what happened. He fell and almost killed me.”
“You were knocked unconscious—”
“I know I was knocked unconscious.”
“It’s a miracle it wasn’t more serious, you know. Arnold—”
“I’m grateful—grateful I only sustained injuries to the head, neck, shoulder, and ankle.”
“What about Tucker?” he said defensively. “He could have broken his neck. And you broke his fall.” He paced. “Don’t you see?” he said excitedly. “You saved the life of the President of the United States. You ought to be proud, Herb. How many—”
“Please. What about this?” I gestured with my neck toward the press release.
“That?” he repeated.
“Yes. This tissue—this industrial broadloom carpet of lies. What about it?”
“I dunno,” he said. “I thought it was pretty good for the middle of the night.”
He grinned. He was genuinely, professionally proud of himself. That was what made Feeley innocent, no matter what outrages he perpetrated. I lay there pondering this, and my anger dissipated somewhat. Perhaps it was the medication. I could feel the fight going out of me. Being in politics requires an awful lot of resignation.
“He wants to see you,” said Feeley. “I think he feels bad about what happened.”
“Well, he ought to,” I said. “He ought to feel extremely bad about what happened.”
“Great. I’ve got it laid on for eleven tomorrow. We’ll do pool coverage. You don’t want a lot of cameras and reporters in here.”